Monster Calling
by LadyWallace
Summary: Dean has the flu when John comes back from a hunt...different. Teen!Chester and lots of Winchester family feels
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, so this is my first attempt at a Supernatural fic. I only recently got into watching the show but I've really enjoyed it. Can't help but love Sam and Dean ;) I don't know how I really feel about this story, but I thought I would post it anyway, I've read so many super good SPN fics so I hope this one is okay, even though it's not nearly as good as some. This is a TeenChester fic, Dean is 17 and Sam is 13. The first chapter is a little slow, but it will pick up in the next one, I promise. I'd like to know what everyone thinks as this is my first fic writing Sam and Dean and I want to make sure I'm doing it right :) Hope you all enjoy!**

Monster Calling

A Supernatural Fanfic

_Chapter One_

It started with a cold. Dean could feel it dragging him down as he was shopping in the grocery store for the next week's food and tried to push it off as he fought to remember everything he needed, but that all too familiar heaviness in his stomach and pain resting just behind his eyes made him know he was getting sick and he hated it. He didn't have time for this right now! Not only did he have stupid school to worry about, which, while he didn't necessarily care about his own grades, he knew Sam did and if they missed a day because of Dean Sam was not going to be a happy camper; but there was also the fact that their dad was on a hunt a few towns over and he had already been gone longer than he promised and Dean was getting worried. He couldn't afford to be sick because if Dad needed help, he needed to be sharp and on his game to go offer it. Besides that, what if he and Sam were put in danger? It could happen, it had certainly happened before, and though Sammy was getting to be a much better fighter, he still wasn't up to taking on some creatures alone.

He cashed out with the dwindling money their dad had left them, and tried to ignore the sympathetic look the motherly cashier gave him as he tried to refrain from wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jacket. He took up the bags and left the store, walking down the street to the apartment they were staying in.

Dean had been surprised when their dad had actually gotten them a room in an apartment instead of a crappy motel. It was still crappy and he and Sam still had to share a room, but it was better than normal and made him feel a little more like they had an actual home.

He got to their room and fumbled for his key, having to balance the bags precariously and nearly tipped over, slightly dizzy. He cursed under his breath as he finally found the key and jiggled it into the lock, kicking the door open.

"I'm back," he called.

Sammy was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework, but he stood up to help Dean with the bags, smiling. His hand brushed Dean's as he took the bag and he frowned.

"You're hot," he said.

Dean forced a cocky smile. "That's what the girls think, Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes at his big brother as he set the bag on the table. "No, Dean, gosh, I mean you're hot, as in, fevered. You feeling okay? Cause you don't look too good."

"I'm fine," Dean muttered as he set about pulling the groceries out of the bags as Sam went over to the door.

"You sure? Cause you forgot the key in the door and you never do that."

"Crap," Dean muttered as Sam locked and bolted the door properly. "Yeah, all right, I think I caught a cold or something."

"Flu's going around at school," Sam said, all too helpfully. "Rick and Sarah were out today from it."

"Oh, thanks, that's some great reassurance you got going, Sammy," Dean said sarcastically, but couldn't ignore the pounding in his head, and how much sicker he felt to his stomach with every passing minute.

"What's for dinner?" Sammy asked, rummaging through the bags as Dean tried to put the cold things in the fridge.

"Tomato soup and grilled cheese," Dean told him, throwing the loaf of bread at Sam who caught it with a smile.

"Great, I got some more homework to get done. I picked up yours too."

Dean snorted derisively. Like he didn't have a million other things to worry about besides algebra and literature. Once he had put all the food away he rummaged in a cabinet to find the first aid kit and dug out the bottle of Tylenol. If he was getting a fever like Sam said, it would be best to catch it now. Besides, his head was pounding even worse now than it had been before. He left Sam to finish his homework and after grabbing a cup of coffee with the hope it would aid his headache, he went to lay down on the couch and watch TV.

Sam joined him when he was done, looking at Dean pointedly until he pulled his legs up to give him a place to sit, growling under his breath.

"Did Dad call today?" Sam asked him.

Dean idly watched the game show on TV. "No, but he said it shouldn't take too long. He should be back within a couple days. Said it sounded like a shifter." He sat up, feeling uncomfortable and peeled off his over shirt. Sam watched him out of the corner of his eye.

"You really don't look good, Dean," he said unhelpfully. "You're eyes are all hollow and your cheeks are red."

"Thanks for pointing it out; what are you, my personal make up artist? It's not like I have a date tonight." Dean laid his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. They hurt, his head hurt, and his stomach felt even worse after the coffee. He distastefully put the cup aside. He cracked his eyes open as he felt a hand descend on his knee.

"You should rest, Dean," Sam said with a kind smile on his face. "I'm sure you'll feel better tomorrow if you get some sleep."

Dean didn't reply but he knew Sam was likely right. However, he felt too hot to sleep right then. "I think I'll take a shower," he said. "Then we can have dinner."

"Okay," Sam said and grabbed the remote from him, immediately flipping the station to something he wanted to watch.

Dean grabbed some clean clothes and went to take a shower, but found it didn't make him feel much better. He had planned to use the cold water to bring his fever down, but it hurt too much on his overly warm skin so he cranked it up instead to where he was only hotter when he got out. He looked into the mirror, seeing he really did look as terrible as Sam claimed. He sighed and got dressed then went to make dinner.

Sam heated the soup on the stove while Dean manned the sandwiches in the fry pan. His stomach gurgled dispassionately. Just the smell of the food cooking was enough to make him want to hurl, but he was going to have to try and eat something. Usually that made him feel better. Then again, if it was the flu, he'd likely just spend the night on the bathroom floor puking his guts up.

So he tried to eat as much as he could, but a few bites in, he realized it wasn't helping at all, and only made his stomach hurt. He pushed the sandwich away. Sam looked over at him with concern on his face.

"You okay, Dean?"

"Fine, just not real hungry that's all," Dean mumbled.

"What, is it 'that time of the month' again?" Sam asked with a smirk, thinking he was hilarious.

"Real cute, Samantha," he growled. But his stomach gurgled again and he decided he was not going to eat anymore. "You can have mine."

Sam didn't protest and finished Dean's meal after his own then hopped off to take a shower. Dean checked the time and realized he should take some more Tylenol. Even the act of swallowing the pills was nearly enough to push him over the edge. His fever had seemed to get worse. He felt like a baby crawling into bed so early, but to be honest, he didn't want to be anywhere else. He went to the room he shared with Sam and stripped to his t-shirt and boxers and crawled into his bed with an involuntary groan, burying his face in a pillow.

Sam came out of the shower, his longish hair wet, and stood by the foot of Dean's bed.

"You gonna need a bucket?" he asked.

"Just go 'way," Dean groaned into his pillow and Sam went to his own bed, slipping under the covers.

"All right then. Good night, Dean."

He flipped the light off, but Dean was already asleep, exhaustion finally winning over. He only barely remembered that he had left his rifle out in the kitchen but he was too tired to care right then, even with the thought of his dad tanning his backside if he ever found out. The fever was burning and sleep claimed him.

* * *

_He woke sometime in_ the night with his stomach hurting and he rolled over onto his side with a groan, curling around himself. He heard a stirring across the room and a sleepy voice saying, "Dean?"

Dean didn't answer. He couldn't. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth…oh crap. He threw the covers back and raced for the bathroom just in time to throw up in the toilet.

He leaned against the toilet seat and rested his head on his arm, moaning. He heard light feet padding into the bathroom and felt Sam's presence.

"Go 'way," he groaned.

But Sam stubbornly stayed and wet a washcloth in the sink, pressing it to the back of Dean's neck. Dean was silent, but he had to admit it felt good. Sam patted his shoulder.

"You'll be okay in a few days, Dean," he said reassuringly. "You want me to help you back to the room, or are you done yet?"

"Think I'm gonna stay here," Dean mumbled, swallowing hard as he felt his stomach flip over again. As the feeling became too much to bear, Dean pulled his head up with a groan and rose to his knees, throwing up again. Sam rubbed his back and let Dean lean against him as he fell back, exhausted and shivering.

"How come I'm so damn cold?" he asked, as his teeth chattered.

"Don't know, that's just how it is," Sam said, washing his face off with the washcloth. Dean was in a bad mood; he hated being sick, but he couldn't find the heart to snap at Sammy. His quiet, sure ministrations were a comfort. In the past, Dean had always been there for Sam when he was sick, and now it seemed his little brother was returning the favor.

He felt a moment of regret when Sam stood and left the bathroom suddenly, wanting to call him back, but obviously not wanting to, because he wasn't a baby and he could take care of himself. But, even though he would never admit it, he was really glad to see Sam come back with a blanket from the room.

He grabbed a towel from the cupboard and rolled it up, setting it on the floor and then wrapping the blanket around Dean's shoulders. Dean still shivered and pulled the blanket tighter around him as Sam pressed him down.

"Put your head on the towel. You can at least try to get a little sleep," he said.

"You know, Sammy, if I wanted a nurse, I'd get a hot one," Dean told him with a small smirk and listened to his little brother's long-suffering sigh as he shoved Dean onto the floor and tucked the blanket tighter around him.

"Just shut up and go to sleep."

"Bitch," Dean mumbled, making a face.

"Jerk," Sammy retorted par normal.

But Dean closed his eyes and felt himself drifting off again, not entirely against his will. He was aware of Sam sitting next to him for a while and then he finally gave up and fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

_The next time he woke,_ it was to a sound coming from the outer room. Dean sat up with a groan, his body aching and shivering with the fever, his stomach sore from throwing up. He looked around with bleary eyes, and realized finally why he was sleeping on the bathroom floor. His stomach still hurt, and he felt hotter than he had before. The fever must have set in, but at least he hadn't thrown up for a while. But why had he woken? His mind was still fuzzy.

Then he heard a sound again and it was unmistakable now. Someone was at the door.

"Sam?" he called, his voice so weak, it barely carried. Sam was no longer in the room; he must have gone back to bed. Dean hauled himself to his feet, reaching for a weapon and remembered with derision that he had left his gun in the kitchen earlier. He cursed and searched the room for something. The only thing he found was a plunger.

"That's great, Dean," he muttered to himself. "Some ghost of ghoul comes in and you're going to suction sup it to death."

But he felt better with something in his hands as he pushed the bathroom door open all the way and made his way out into the hall. He could hear someone moving around inside now, and knew that whoever had been at the door had come in. Even though he was sick and could hardly keep his feet, the only thing he could think of was making sure it didn't get to Sammy, even if he had to play roadblock to do so. He just wished he hadn't left his gun in the kitchen.

He saw the dark silhouette in the living room, fumbling around, and he stood his ground, clutching the plunger dangerously. He thought he probably looked ridiculous. Maybe the intruder would die laughing.

"Stop!" he shouted and the figure froze. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"Can you turn on the damn light?" the irritated figure asked.

Dean frowned and fumbled at the wall, finally finding the switch. As the light flooded the room, he saw who the intruder was.

"Dad!"

* * *

**Well, hope this wasn't too terrible! I usually only post stuff on the weekends, and as I have other stories going as well, I probably won't get the next chapter of this up until next Friday. Until then, if you enjoy Hobbit fics, you can check out my other stories :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Yay, I actually got the next chapter up! I just wanted to thank everyone who has reviewed, followed and faved so far! I'm always a little nervous posting a fic in a new fandom, but you all made me feel much better about it. ^^ I hope the story continues to keep your interest!**

Chapter Two

John Winchester frowned at his son. "Dean, why are you holding a plunger?"

Dean laughed slightly at the ridiculousness of it, before he sobered. "Yeah, um, I kind of left the gun in the kitchen." He winced, waiting for the barrage of abuse about to be hurled at him.

But John just frowned deeper and walked toward him, taking the plunger from Dean's hand that was trembling even from the exertion of holding the light object. "Dean, are you okay, son?" he asked, reaching out a hand to put on Dean's cheek. Dean tolerated the ministration, almost welcomed it, even though he was surprised his dad hadn't yelled at him for his negligence.

"I think I caught something; I'm fine, though," he said quickly.

"Dean, you're not fine," John said in exasperation. "Come to the kitchen so I can take your temperature and get you something to bring down this fever."

Dean allowed himself to be led into the kitchen and sat down at the table while John stuck a thermometer under his tongue and found the bottle of Tylenol.

"You're running 102," John informed him and gave him the medicine. "You should be in bed."

"Yeah, probably a good idea," Dean admitted, and allowed John to help him up and practically drag him back to his bed.

"Hey, how did the hunt go?" he asked.

"Fine; got the bastard," John said with a smile. He pushed open the door to Dean and Sam's room and Dean smiled fondly as he saw his little brother fast asleep. Dean sat on his bed and John pushed him back, pulling the blankets up over him.

"You just rest now, son. Feel better in the morning."

"Thanks, Dad," Dean said. "Um, you're not mad about the gun are you?"

John frowned as if unable to remember and then shook his head. "No, not this time. You're sick. I think we can let it slide."

"Thanks Dad, won't happen again," Dean mumbled and turned so his dad couldn't see his frown. _Let it slide?_ Since when did John Winchester let anything slide, let alone something that could have cost both his boys' lives. Dean decided it must be a product of the fever, and ignored it. Maybe his dad had just had really good luck on the hunt.

He couldn't really be bothered to think about it anymore though, for his eyes were so heavy, he couldn't keep them open and slipped off into disturbing fevered dreams.

* * *

_He was woken the next_ morning by rustling in the room and jerked awake, groggy and panting from some sort of nightmare he couldn't quite remember. He nearly freaked out when a hand touched his back and spun around, instantly regretting the sudden movement as his head ached but saw only Sammy standing beside his bed, fully dressed and with his backpack slung over his shoulder.

"Guess you get a free day from school, Dean," he said with a smirk. "With a real reason this time."

"Don't let Dad hear you say that," Dean mumbled, folding his arm over his aching eyes. "I already almost attacked him with a plunger last night."

Sam burst out laughing. "Oh, man, you're going to have to tell me that story when I get home. Gotta go though."

Dean slipped back into his fevered sleep, barely noticing that Sam had gone. He didn't know how long he slept before there was a knock on the door and he jerked awake again, looking over to the doorway, half reaching for the bowie he always kept under his pillow before he saw it was just his father.

"Dad," he croaked and John came into the room and sat on the side of Dean's bed with a small smile, reaching out to put the back of his hand on his brow. He frowned.

"M'fine," Dean mumbled, embarrassed that his father seemed so concerned. Usually it was Sammy who looked after him when he was sick. John was hardly ever around enough to see to his boys. Maybe, Dean thought, that was why he seemed to be making up now. He couldn't say he was exactly comfortable with it, though, for reasons he couldn't really explain.

"I'm gonna take your temperature again," John said decidedly and got up to come back with a thermometer, a glass of water, a bottle of pills and some saltine crackers. Dean groaned at the sight of them.

"Don't wanna eat. Spent last night on the bathroom floor, Dad."

John gave him a glare that was more to Dean's liking. This was how Dad usually dealt with his sick boys. No bedside manner whatsoever. "Exactly, Dean, that's why you need to eat something before you throw more pills down there. Come on, sit up." He propped Dean up with pillows and forced the thermometer back into his mouth.

"Gone down a bit," John said with a smile. "101.5 but we still need to get it down more." He pressed the water into Dean's hands but he could hardly hold it. He sipped cautiously and nibbled on the crackers until he had eaten enough to satisfy John and then took another dose of Tylenol to bring down the fever. He slumped back on the pillows and John pulled the blankets over him again, washing his face and neck with a wet cloth. Dean moaned as it helped to soothe his fever, closing his eyes as he fought to relax.

"Just try to sleep, Dean. I'll bring you some soup later." Then John leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

_Okay, what the hell, Dad?_ Dean's eyes flew open, frowning. He couldn't remember a time in the last ten years when his dad had kissed him like an actual concerned, loving father. John looked back at him in confusion.

"What?" he asked.

Dean just stared at him, thinking something was off, but…well, whatever, he had a fever and he couldn't be relied upon. "Nothing, Dad. Just tired."

"I'll leave you to get your sleep then," John said and stood up, heading for the door.

Dean watched it close behind him, his eyes narrowed in concentration. He just couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, and yet, he knew it was likely just him. He glanced over at the clock. It was only noon. Sam wouldn't be home for another couple hours. He wanted to ask him if he thought Dad was acting strange, but then, his little brother would probably just fuss over him all the more for his fevered ramblings. Dean just rolled onto his side and curled up with the chill of the fever and closed his eyes again. He may as well take Dad's advice and get some sleep.

* * *

_Sam found he was having _a hard time concentrating in his classes that day, something that rarely happened. He was usually able to keep his mind on the work at hand, and most of the time, actually enjoyed it. School might be hard sometimes, but it was a little slice of normal in his not-so-normal life and he had come to be comforted by it, liking to be around normal kids that he could interact with and not have to worry about them wanting to kill him or something. Though the fact that Dean always made him pack his knife to school was testament to the fact that he believed even teenagers could have ulterior motives. Sometimes Dean's overprotectiveness made him roll his eyes, but secretly he was glad to have a big brother who was willing to do anything he had to in order to protect him. Most other seventeen-year-old boys wouldn't give their younger siblings the time of day.

But it had made him feel bad leaving Dean when he was so sick. If their father hadn't come home the night before, he probably would have skipped school to take care of him, repaying Dean for all the times he had missed something he wanted to do to look after Sam. Even so, he had wanted to stay; the thought of Dad looking after either of them when they were sick brought a wry smile to his lips.

But that wasn't the only reason he had wanted to stay home either. Something had just felt off that day, from the moment he got up. Maybe it was a lingering nightmare he had had that he couldn't remember, but something had just felt wrong. A foreboding. Which was strange, he usually felt more secure when Dad was back from a hunt, not more wary. Despite the fact that he and John butted heads a lot, he still loved his dad and always worried when he was gone longer on a hunt that he had estimated. John wasn't the best at calling with updates either unless he needed backup. No, if anything, John's appearance that morning had just seemed to make Sam uneasy. And he didn't like that; not one bit.

"Sam, are you listening?"

Sam jerked his head up and looked at Mrs. Allen, his Lit teacher and swallowed hard, suddenly flustered as he realized everyone was looking at him.

"Um, sorry, Mrs. Allen, my mind must have wandered."

She smiled kindly. "That's all right, I just thought you looked a little worried. Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine," Sam said with a quick smile. "Just got sidetracked."

"Well, try to pay attention for the rest of class, we'll be having a test tomorrow, remember."

Sam nodded and tried his best to focus. Lunch was next and he thought he would call Dean to see how he was feeling. When class ended he packed his books and headed over to his friend, Jason, who he usually ate lunch with.

"Hey, man," Jason said with a grin. "I bet you totally were thinking about Jenna Smith sitting in front of you."

Sam laughed, playing along, even though Jenna—who _was_ pretty cute—was as far from his mind as anything today. "Yeah, well, got a little lost in thought for a minute, I guess. Hey, can I borrow your cell phone before lunch?"

"Don't you usually use Dean's?" Jason asked, but reached for the phone in his backpack.

"Yeah, but he's sick today; I wanted to call and see how he was feeling."

"Sure man," he handed over the phone. "See you at lunch?"

"Yeah," Sam said and thanked him, heading to his locker. He stowed the books he was done with and quickly dialed Dean's phone. He waited, listening to the ring tone, and then the short message tone. He frowned and snapped the phone shut. Dean must be sleeping. Or maybe his phone had died. Or he'd left it out somewhere he couldn't hear it. _Seriously, Sam, stop worrying, everything is all right_, Sam told himself and slammed his locker shut, heading off to lunch.

Even so, he couldn't wait to get home.

* * *

_Dean hadn't been asleep_ more than a few minutes before he heard the phone ring. He groaned and pulled his pillow over his head, letting it go to messages. It was probably just Sam anyway. He groaned again and closed his eyes as it stopped, feeling slightly guilty. Normally he never would have left the phone to ring, but today he was too tired to deal with it. Besides, Sammy was probably just checking up on him. Cute, and slightly annoying, but not imperative to his health or Sam's.

He was just drifting off again when the phone started ringing a second time. This time he rolled over with a curse and reached over the side of the bed, grabbing his discarded jeans from yesterday and rummaging through the pockets until he came up with the phone. He propped himself up on one elbow, and glanced blearily at the caller ID.

_Dad_

Dad?

Dean frowned and answered the call, rubbing his eyes. "Hello?" he said tiredly.

"Dean? Thank God."

Dean sat up straighter, hearing the frantic ring in his dad's voice, trying to make sense of what was going on. "Dad, what's wrong, where are you? I thought…"

"Dean, listen to me, there were more than one, I got jumped. Keep your brother safe, Dean, I'm coming as fast as I can."

Dean's fevered brain worked through the new information and finally horror dawned on him. There was a creak in the hallway outside the door and he jerked up, his heart pounding frantically in his chest.

"Dean? Did you hear me?"

"Dad, I gotta go," Dean whispered.

"Dean—"

He ended the call and reached under his pillow for his knife. It was silver, thankfully, but he still wished he had his gun. Why had he left it out in the kitchen now of all possible times?

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and barely kept his feet, but he was determined to go face…whatever was in the house.

He opened his door and looked outside, hearing noise from the living room; the TV was on. He crept down the hall, the knife held at his side, inconspicuous. He stopped around the corner, peering in, and saw John, or whatever it was, sitting on the couch, seeming normal enough. But Dean wasn't willing to believe that until he put it to the test.

He stepped around the corner and the Not-John looked up at him in surprise, standing up as if worried Dean might fall. Dean, unfortunately, was worried about the same thing.

"Dean, what are you doing out of bed? I told you I would bring you something later…"

Dean whipped the knife out in front of him, making Not-John jump back a step.

"You are not my father."

**So, yeah, my fondness for cliff-hangers? Sorry *hides*. I'll try to get the next chapter up as soon as possible, but I have other stories to devote my little bits of writing time to as well. However, I WILL have another chapter up by next saturday at the latest! **


	3. Chapter 3

**On to chapter three! A little more excitement in this chapter :) I hope everyone is still enjoying it! I'll be posting the next chapter tomorrow or Sunday! **

Chapter Three

John, or whatever it was, held his hands out in front of him as Dean cautiously moved forward, the knife still clutched tightly in his grip even as his hand shook.

"Dean, put that knife down right now, son. Of course I'm your father."

Dean shook his head vigorously. "No. No, you're not. I know."

He smiled placatingly. "Dean, you're sick. You've got a fever. You are obviously hallucinating."

"No," Dean shook his head again. "I'm certain of it. I know you're not Dad."

"How, Dean?" Not-John asked, starting to get angry.

"Because he just called me," Dean shouted, holding up the cell phone. "And because you're too _nice_ to be my father." He laughed humorlessly. "Dad would have skinned me for leaving my gun in the kitchen but you just brushed it off like it was nothing."

"So what, I'm not allowed to be nice to my son when he's sick?"

Dean smiled. "Really, I'd like to believe that, I would. But Dad was hunting shifters, and that's too many coincidences for me."

"Dean stop this now!" Not-John shouted, making Dean flinch. It was his dad's voice sure enough, with his anger behind it too. Not-John stepped forward a pace, his hand held out. "Give me the knife, Dean. Now!"

Dean hesitated, but stepped back, only to find himself pressed against the wall. He gulped, but welcomed it as a much needed support. "No."

"Are you going to murder your own father?" Not-John asked, still angry. "Give me the knife and I'll prove I'm not a shifter, Dean."

Dean hesitated, and then decided this might be his only chance. He lowered the blade slightly and took a cautious step forward. Not-John still held his hand out for the blade, and Dean advanced slowly, offering the knife before he suddenly lunged forward and sliced it across the thing's arm. Not-John screamed as the silver blade burned through his skin with a sizzle. Dean watched in a mixture of fear and strangely a bit of relief. He had been right, it really wasn't Dad.

The shifter spun around, his eyes flashing silver and snarled at Dean. "Yeah, you're right, I'm not your daddy." He leapt forward with inhuman speed and slammed Dean into the wall, one hand firmly around the wrist of the hand that held the knife, the other at Dean's throat. Dean tried to fight back, but the shifter was incredibly strong, and even if he hadn't been sick he wouldn't have been able to break the hold; and in his current state he had no chance at all.

He choked for breath, gasping in pain as the shifter twisted his wrist until he was forced to let the knife go or have his wrist broken. Once he released his grip on the knife, the shifter grabbed the front of his t-shirt and swung him around, throwing him to the floor.

Dean fell hard and choked breath back into his lungs, curling up instinctively as the shifter advanced on him again. He tried to scramble for the knife that he had dropped, but the shifter stepped on his wrist and bent to retrieve it himself, careful not to touch the blade.

"I've had enough games, Dean," he said, bending down and pressing the blade threateningly against Dean's throat. Dean looked up into his father's face that was twisted into a sneer of hatred. He shuddered. It seemed so real and yet he knew it was not Dad. He had to keep telling himself that.

"We've played nice long enough, now it's time to get to business." The shifter hauled him upright again and slammed him onto the kitchen table, holding him there on his back.

"What do you want?" Dean asked, as he tried to fight his way free, but though he struggled and kicked, the shifter just seemed to ignore him and punched him across the jaw with the hilt of the blade, dazing him for a moment. "What did you do to my dad?"

"John Winchester is fine," the shifter told him with disgust. "For now. I just needed to get a head start. I'm sure he's on his way now. Just in time." He reached into a pack on one of the chairs and brought out a rope. Dean struggled all the more as he saw it, not wanting to be helpless and at this thing's mercy, but the shifter pressed the knife dangerously to his throat again and he was forced to stop. "You see, Dean, your daddy made the mistake of killing my son." The shifter looped the rope around one of Dean's wrists and then under the table to tie off the other. Dean struggled as the shifter went to work on his feet, tying them securely before leaning over Dean and tapping the knife against his chest. "I'm just going to repay the favor. See how he likes to see his boys suffer."

Dean clenched his teeth as the blade bit into him and the shifter traced a slow cut down the middle of his chest.

"We're going to wait until John comes back and then we'll have some real fun. I hope you put on a good show for daddy, Dean."

A sudden fear gripped Dean's heart. "Where's Sam? What did you do with my brother?!"

"Oh, he's at school like he should be," the shifter said. "He should be back before John. I've got a few things to see to before then, so just sit tight, Dean." He smiled and patted Dean on the cheek none-too-gently.

"You bastard," Dean growled. "I swear, if you hurt my brother—"

"I don't think you're in much of a position to do anything about it," the shifter said and reached into the bag again, pulling out a bandana. "Now be a good boy and keep quiet," he said, stuffing the cloth between Dean's teeth and tying it tightly around the back of his neck. Dean glared at him and tried to hide his fear, but he was failing. He knew it would take another hour at the most for his father to get back to town, even if he drove fast. If he was where he had been a few days ago. If not, it might be even longer. But Dean didn't want to think of that possibility.

The shifter finished gagging him and stepped back, tapping the knife against Dean's chin. "Now be good, Dean; I'm going to go get ready for when Sammy comes back."

Dean growled and jerked at the ropes, but he was tied too tightly. That didn't stop him from rubbing his wrists and ankles to bleeding, but eventually, he just lay back, panting, exhausted and feeling sicker than before. He was only glad he was too distracted by recent events to want to throw up. There didn't seem to be anything he could do now. He was helpless in his current state and he hated it. He only hoped that by some small miracle, his dad would get back before Sammy.

* * *

_Sam waved goodbye _to his friends as they parted after school. The school wasn't far from their apartment, so he usually walked and saved Dean the trip. He was eager to get back; he had held onto his strange feeling for the rest of the day, and it had only worsened after Dean had failed to answer his call, even though he had gone over many possible and perfectly legitimate reasons why that had been. But still, with the lives they lived, it never hurt to be paranoid.

He trudged back to the apartment and stood outside the door for a moment before going in. Something just didn't feel right. He reached into his backpack for his knife and pulled it out, feeling reassured by its familiar grip. He held it against his thigh as he opened the door and went inside, feeling slightly silly at his caution.

"Dean?" he called. "Dad? I'm back."

He thought he heard a slight moan and then a voice coming from his and Dean's room.

"Sammy?" it called.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief and allowed himself a smile, heading to the room as he slipped his heavy backpack from his shoulder. The door was ajar and he pushed it open, seeing Dean lying under the covers of the bed, about where he left him, though looking a bit better.

"Hey, Dean, how you feeling? You look better," he crossed to the bed, stashing his knife in the back of his belt and reaching out a hand to feel Dean's forehead, looking at him in surprise. "Wow, your fever's gone. Guess you made a pretty quick recovery."

Sam barely had a moment to react before Dean's hand reached out and grabbed his wrist, leaping out of bed and pressing Sam against it with Dean's bowie knife pricking his chest threateningly.

Dean's smile was horrific as his eyes flashed silver. "Hello, little brother."


	4. Chapter 4

**On to chapter four! So glad people seem to be enjoying this :)**

Chapter Four

If Sam hadn't still been gripping his backpack loosely in one hand, he might have been taken down too, but as it was, he wasted no time in reacting to the attack. He shouted something unintelligible and swung up the heavy pack to hit whatever it was that looked like Dean in the side of the head. Not-Dean fell back with a grunt and Sam grabbed his knife out of the back of his belt and raced for the door, slamming it behind him and grabbing a small table in the hallway and slamming it up against the door in some vague hope that it would keep the thing at bay.

"Dean!" he screamed frantically. "Dad!"

He raced to the kitchen where he hoped the gun still was, but on his way through the living room, he came to a halt, seeing a gelatinous mass of disgustingness that had a vague appearance of flesh. He gagged involuntarily, reeling away from it before he realized the implications.

"Shifter," he whispered to himself before a groan and a thumping alerted him. His heart stuttered and he stumbled the last few yards into the kitchen, coming up short as he saw Dean tied to the table, his shirt bloody.

"Dean!" he screamed in a mixture of fear and relief as his brother's eyes met his. Sam leapt forward and started cutting at the ropes that bound Dean and as soon as he was free, Dean forced himself up and tore off the gag, grabbing Sam by the front of his shirt and pulling him into a fierce hug.

"Sammy, you all right?" he made a quick inspection of his little brother as Sam nodded jerkily.

"What happened?" Sam asked, trembling in Dean's grasp, his adrenaline lowering for a moment in the safety of his brother's arms.

"It wasn't Dad," Dean said grimly. "He called me, said he was hunting a pair of shifters, and one jumped him. He'd just gotten free."

"Where is he now?" Sam asked.

"On his way back, where's the shifter?"

"In the room, I don't think he'll stay there long though."

"He said Dad killed his son," Dean told him blandly. "That's why he wanted us. For revenge."

Sam shuddered and Dean squeezed him tighter a moment before he let him go. "Come on," Dean said. "We need to find weapons. Where's the gun?"

A crashing sounded from down the hall and Sam knew the door wouldn't hold for much longer.

"Hurry!" he said to Dean as they flung stuff willy-nilly around the kitchen, looking for the gun Dean had left there the night before. Dean cursed, even opening the fridge in some vague hope it might have been put there.

"I can't find it!" Sam shouted as he even tossed stuff from the garbage can.

Dean ran into the living room, nearly collapsing since the blood still hadn't completely come back to his feet yet. He flung pillows around as the crack from down the hall sounded out and he looked up, knowing they needed to hurry. He beckoned to Sam and the younger brother ran to him.

"Give me your knife," Dean said. "It's all we have."

Sam grasped the knife, but hesitated giving it to Dean. "You're not steady, Dean. You can hardly stand."

"Give me the damn knife, Sammy!" Dean shouted as another splintering crack sounded out along with the screech of the table against the floor. Sam knew that his impromptu barricade had just been broken through and the wicked laughter that echoed through the apartment was testament to that.

"Sammy, what's wrong? Don't tell me you're afraid of your big brother!" the shifter called tauntingly. "Come back here! It's not nice to lock me in the room."

"Shut up, you bastard!" Dean shouted, instinctively shoving Sam behind him even though he wasn't going very easily. "Only I call him Sammy. You don't get to be me."

Sam was still gripping the knife, and he did so all the tighter as the shifter finally broke loose of the room and started down the hall, the lost gun held in one of his hands while Dean's knife was in the other. He smiled at them. It was Dean's smile and yet it wasn't. Sam shivered and clutched his brother's shirt to reassure him he was actually there, and that it was the real Dean.

"Oh, that is messed up," Dean said, but Sam could tell he was seriously unnerved.

The shifter put the knife into the back of his jeans, ones he had stolen from Dean's closet, and lifted the gun, cocking it. "Didn't think I would leave you with a weapon, did you? Now, be good boys. Daddy should be here any minute, and you'll want to make a good impression on him when he gets here. So come quietly and I'll let you see him one last time before I kill you."

"Like hell," Dean snarled. "You might have a gun and I might be sick, but I can still take you down."

"You want to bet on that?" the shifter asked, raising the gun threateningly before motioning with it to the kitchen. "Go in there and sit down. You too, Sammy. I'm going to tie you two up nice and tight in a pretty little package for John."

They stared at each other for a minute, Sam looking between the two Deans with his heart pounding in his chest. There didn't seem to be anything good about this situation.

Finally Dean took a deep sigh and held up his hands in a non-threatening gesture. "Fine, okay, we'll do what you want."

The shifter smiled, lowering the gun slightly. "I knew you'd see it my way."

That was all the chance Dean needed. Sam hardly knew what had happened before Dean reached down and grabbed the knife from his hand, and leapt forward, straight at the shifter and drove the knife deep into his shoulder. The shifter howled in pain, but struck Dean in the side of the head with the butt of the rifle and he fell to the floor with a grunt. Sam was about to run to help him up, but found the gun trained on him as the shifter pulled the knife from his shoulder with a grunt of pain. Dean was hauling himself to his feet, shaking his head to clear it.

"Oh, you're going to pay for that, Dean. I can make do with one of you. It would be so sad if John were too late to save both his boys."

"Sammy!" Dean shouted in horror as the shifter raised his gun again and fired.

Sam had no time to react, things were just going so quickly, he only saw Dean lunge at him, and knew somewhere in the back of his mind that he was going to die and then the gunshot whent off and he clutched his chest, expecting to find a bullet hole there as Dean crashed to the floor at his feet. He heard the shifter curse, and suddenly realized there was no pain, but there was blood on the floor and it was coming from Dean.

"Dean, no!" Sam yelled, falling to his knees beside his brother and rolling him onto his back to see where he had been shot. Bright red was blossoming over his shirt on the right side of his stomach and Sam pressed a hand over it instantly in an attempt to stop the bleeding. He looked up at the shifter with a snarl on his lips.

"You'll pay for that!"

"Come now, Sammy," the shifter said with a sickening smile. "You know it was his fault for jumping in front of you. You Winchesters, you just can't stand it when someone is threatening one of you. You should have heard the things your daddy threatened me with if I even went near your boys." He shivered mockingly. "Now come on, let's go get ready for him to come home."

Sam looked down at Dean's still face and then suddenly reached behind him, grabbing a pillow from the couch and lobbing it at the shifter. The movement, while not intended to cause damage, surprised the shifter and knocked the gun to one side. Sam took the opportunity to grab the lamp beside the couch and swing it with all the strength he had at the sifter's head. It struck home and the shifter fell with a grunt. Sam hit him one more time and then just grabbed Dean and dragged him into their father's room down the hall. He winced when he dropped Dean none-too-gently on the floor, gaining a welcome groan, as he slammed the door shut and ran to throw his weight against the dresser, shoving it with a grunt in front of the door and hoping it would hold out better than the table had. At least long enough for their dad to get back.

Sam went back to Dean and grasped him under the arms, lifting him onto the bed with a gasp.

"Dude, you are freaking heavy!" he panted as Dean groaned again. He then fell to the floor on his stomach and reached under the bed for the extra rifle and cartridges he knew his dad always kept there for emergencies. He pulled it out, loaded it, and set it across his lap as he sat on the bed and tore off his over shirt to press it to Dean's wound. Dean stiffened under him and rolled his head against Sam's leg with a moan, but Sam didn't let up, just continued to speak random reassurances, more for himself than his unconscious brother.

"Come on, Dean, you can't leave me to do this alone." Just as he said it, his hands shaking in panic as he fought to stop the blood flow, something slammed into the door and Sam jumped, gripping the gun tightly.

"Come on, Sammy!" the shifter called from outside. "You know I'll get in there eventually. You may as well just give yourself up now. It will go easier for you."

"I'm not letting you get in," Sam shouted at him, looking around the Spartan room to see if there was anything else to use as a barricade, but apart from the bed, there was nothing, and he didn't think he could move it by himself.

Dean groaned again and Sam looked down at him, seeing his eyes flutter. "Dean?" he hissed.

"S'mmy?" Dean asked, his eyes opening as he grimaced and brought a hand up to his side. "Damn. This just isn't my day."

"You'll be all right, Dean," Sam said, pressing harder against the wound and taking Dean's hand to put over the shirt, forcing it down and hoping he had enough strength to keep proper pressure on it. "Just hold it."

A room-shaking crash sounded against he door, followed by several more, and Sam gripped the gun against his hip in one hand while the other tightened over Dean's.

"Don't make me tear the door down, Sammy!" the shifter shouted out, sounding angry now. Dean shifted and tried to sit up, but fell back with a gasp.

"Don't move, Dean," Sam said, panic catching in his voice. "There's nothing we can do right now. Dad should be back soon, right?"

A sudden bang and splintering made them both jump and cry out, Sam sprawling over Dean as he ducked instinctively. He whirled around and saw a hole in the door where the shifter had shot it. The creature's eye appeared in the hole and Sam knew he was smirking.

"Knock knock," he said mockingly.

Sam raised the gun with a snarl and let off his own round. The shifter just barely ducked in time and the only thing Sam accomplished was widening the hole in the door. He quickly re-loaded and kept it leveled now as the shifter made more effort to break through the door, crashing through it with the butt of the rifle.

"Just shoot him," Dean told Sam, looking paler by the moment. Sam cast a quick glance down and saw blood had soaked into the bed from Dean's wound. He knew he would have to take care of it soon before Dean lost too much more blood.

He raised the gun again and trained it on the shifter, taking a shot. He heard a satisfying grunt of pain, but as the shifter continued to work, he realized he had only winged him. The shifter appeared in the growing hole in the door again, anger clear in his flashing eyes.

"Now you're just making me angry. I'm done playing, Sammy. John will be here any minute and I'm not going to be stuck out here to greet him." He took hold of one side of the hole and jerked it with inhuman force, cracking the door off its hinges. Dean grabbed ahold of Sam as Sam gripped the gun tighter, standing up from the bed to train it on the shifter. The shifter leapt on top of the dresser with a grin on his face, the knife in his hand. He was bleeding from the knife wound and the bullet Sam had grazed him with.

"Time to play, boys," he said and lunged forward.


	5. Chapter 5

**Well this ended up being the last chapter! Thanks so much to the people who have read and reviewed and faved this fic! I was not expecting so much interest as I got, since this was kind of a trial story I wrote for my own amusement that I wasn't really even planning on posting :) I'm glad someone liked it anyway! Hope you enjoy the ending too.**

Chapter Five

Sam shot at him, but in his horror, he missed and the shifter just ducked to one side and before Sam could reload, he leapt forward and grabbed the gun Sam held, using it to shove him backward against the wall, pinning him effortlessly.

"Get away from my brother!" Dean shouted and tried to tackle the shifter away from Sam, but the creature only elbowed him in the stomach and kicked him onto the ground. Dean's wound protested the treatment and he cried out in pain, curling around himself. Sam watched hopelessly, wanting to go to his brother, but unable to move though he struggled violently. The shifter smiled at him.

"Come quietly, Sammy, and I will give you a quick death when Daddy gets here."

"No!" Sam grunted. He still had a grip on the gun, but it was pressed against his chest, crushing his ribs and he could hardly budge. He thought maybe if he could kick the shifter in the crotch, he could buy himself a minute to get free.

Dean got there first, somehow getting to his feet again and wrapping his arm around the shifter's neck, giving Sam the strange impression of Dean strangling himself. It bought him a second, but he was only able to move away from the wall, before the shifter smashed his head back into Dean's face and Dean was forced to let go and fell back onto the bed. Sam was forced to let go of the gun, as the shifter's grip was too tight and simply slid down the wall and as far away from the shifter as he could. The creature only chuckled, stepping forward until he had backed Sam into a corner and leveled the gun at him. Sam tried to keep a defiant look in his eyes, but he was really just a frightened kid inside, and he wanted his big brother.

"You're too much trouble, Sammy," the shifter said, shaking his head. "Like I said before, I really only need one of you alive. Maybe I'll give your daddy your head instead."

"No! Sammy!" Dean gasped out, trying to rise again. Sam looked over the shifter's shoulder at him, afraid that the creature might turn around and shoot Dean instead.

But the shifter just cocked the gun and lowered it to rest against Sam's forehead. "Say goodbye to your brother, Sammy."

"No!" Dean's cry was drowned out by a gun shot, and Sam, for the second time that day, closed his eyes, waiting for the pain that never came. He opened them and saw the shifter clutching his chest and slumping to the ground. Sam choked out a breath and turned to the doorway where John stood with a rifle, his face a turmoil of emotions as he looked down at the dead shifter, still wearing Dean's face.

"Dad," Dean whispered, a relieved smile on his face, even as he slid to the ground, his hand held limply against his wound.

Sam finally found his feet and ran to Dean, grabbing his shoulders and fluttering his hands over him, knowing he had to do something, but unsure what. "Dean, are you all right?" he asked breathlessly and finally realized there were tears falling down his face.

"Sammy, Dean," John breathed, finally coming out of his trance and dropped the gun as he collapsed next to his sons, grabbing Sam up in a strong embrace and leaning against the bed so he could gather Dean up as well. The two boys rested against his chest, silent for a long time, just trying to get over the scare they had all had. Finally, Dean raised his head and looked up at John, a small smile on his face.

"Is that really you, Dad?" he asked. "You're not usually so touchy-feely."

"So I'm not allowed to hug my sons when I feared they might be dead?" John asked, trying to keep a scowl on his face, but failing as he rested his cheek on Dean's head, letting out a long sigh of relief, and then did the same to Sam, using his thumb to wipe the tears from the younger boy's cheeks. "Thank God you boys are all right."

"More or less," Dean said, before he finally passed out.

* * *

_Sam watched as John_ patched Dean up. His hands were still shaking too much to help, but he held Dean's hand tightly as their dad dug the bullet out and sewed the wound closed. Dean winced, having only passed out for a minute or two, and clutched Sam's hand tighter, looking up at his little brother with a grimace of a smile.

"You saved me, little brother," he said. "I'm never gonna hear the end of this, am I?"

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. "Nope."

As John worked, he related what had happened on his hunt. "I didn't realize at first that there were two shifters, so when I made my way into their lair, I got jumped. I managed to kill one before the other hit me from behind. When I woke up I was tied and the shifter was nowhere to be seen. When I realized the shifter I killed was the other's son, I was afraid he would come after you two. I'm glad I got here when I did. That reminds me, I'm going to have to ditch that car, because I kind of had to borrow it to get here."

"It was my fault, Dad, I wasn't thinking straight," Dean said. "I might have realized something was off sooner if I hadn't been so sick. Plus I left the gun in the kitchen like an idiot."

"Well, now you've learned your lesson," John told him firmly as he finished off the bandage and patted Dean's knee. "I doubt you'll let it happen again now."

"Oh, trust me, I won't," Dean told him with a wry smile. "Though I think I'm also gonna have to put you through several tests now every time you get back from a hunt."

John swatted him on the back of the head. "We'll see about that. Now come on, let's get you to bed. I don't want to hang around here for too much longer with this mess."

Dean was too tired to protest and went gladly, falling asleep almost instantly. When John left the room, Sam was standing there and looking a little lost and shaken up. John set a strong hand on his shoulder, giving him a bit of a shake. "You did good, Sammy," he said.

Sam smiled. "Thanks, Dad."

* * *

_That night, Dean lay _in a restless sleep, his fever that had come back now after his bullet wound, causing nightmares he would rather not experience. He wanted to roll onto his side, but it hurt too much so he just flopped back down with a sigh, throwing an arm over his eyes. He felt so hot and exhausted, but there didn't seem to be much relief. He was pretty much just resigned to the fact that he wouldn't get any sleep. Maybe he would just go out to the living room and watch some TV. That is, if it had survived the fight earlier that day.

Then he heard a rustling in the room, accompanied by a soft "Dean?"

He turned his head and saw Sam slipping out of his bed to stand by Dean's. "Are you okay?"

Dean shrugged. "Just having trouble sleeping. This damn fever."

Sam left the room silently and brought back a wet washcloth and a glass of cold water. He helped Dean sit up to drink and Dean was glad of the cold that slid down his throat. Then Sam washed the sweat from his face and chest and that felt even better. He couldn't help a smirk.

"You don't have too bad of a bedside manner, Sammy," he said.

Sam pinched him in response. "Shut up, Jerk."

"Bitch," Dean said automatically then yawned. He was silent as Sam continued to cool him off and felt himself drifting off to sleep, much more comfortable now.

He was vaguely aware of Sam placing the cloth over his forehead and tugging at the covers before Sam himself curled up against his side without a word. Dean cracked his eyes open and looked down at the shaggy head resting against his shoulder and couldn't stop the smile on his lips.

"Okay, Sammy, but just this once, all right?" he muttered, then wrapped his arm around his brother's shoulders and let Sam's breathing lull him to a finally peaceful sleep.

* * *

**Thanks again so much to everyone who took the time to read this story. I have more planned for the Supernatural fandom, so if you're interested, keep an eye out. I've got ideas for fluffy one shots and also a super angsty story, so it all depends on when I get time to write them. In the meantime, if you're also a Tolkien fan, I have lots of Hobbit fanfics too :) **


End file.
